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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29278575">beneath the red-gold sun</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/noonlighted/pseuds/noonlighted'>noonlighted</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>dream smp fics [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Found Family, Gen, Ghostbur, Hurt/Comfort, Magic, Niki | Nihachu-centric, Villain Niki | Nihachu, angry niki, she just needs someone to hug her and definitely some therapy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:22:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,402</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29278575</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/noonlighted/pseuds/noonlighted</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Under the anger and the spite, there’s loneliness, in the way there always is. Niki needs someone, someone she can trust. Someone that won’t leave her, that won’t die, that won’t let her down. Someone that she won’t hurt in the process. She doesn’t want to be broken. She just wants to leave all this behind, all the war and the pain and the longing. </p><p>Revenge, desperation and long sleepless nights lead to the same place they always do: the slow realisation that you’re falling apart.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cara | CaptainPuffy/Niki | Nihachu, Eret &amp; Niki | Nihachu, Niki | Nihachu &amp; Wilbur Soot, Niki | Nihachu/Wilbur Soot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>dream smp fics [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2055483</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>92</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. little fires</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>look. we all know how underrated niki's character is, and how lacking puffychu content is. i'm here to fill that. </p><p>please remember that all the people in this fic are characters based off the smp! their personalities, motivations and crushes of off 'canon' conversations and actions. that being said, if the ccs are not cool with this, i will take it down!</p><p>this shit is gonna be sad before it's happy. but it will be happy. god i just want some good wlw angst with a happy ending, is that so much to ask?</p><p>as my lovely beta princedemeter rightfully said "the venn diagram of women that deserve to be angry and niki nihachu is a circle."</p><p>when niki says "you", she is referring to puffy, btw</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sky is the colour of dying lavender, the day I say goodbye. </p><p>You shift in your sleep as I kiss your cheek—a turn of the head, your hair falling across your face in messy white waves. A flutter of the eyelids. And then you roll over, away from me, and it’s as if I was never there at all. </p><p>A shard of white light hits the dark wall. I’ve been meaning to get those blinds fixed for months now. You always said you didn’t mind. (I did.)</p><p>I don’t quite know what we are. It’s always been this strange, unspoken thing—me, waking up in your bed, never quite sure what happened the night before. It’s not love, not exactly. I don’t know what it is, when you kiss me in those morning hours, when it feels like nothing is alive apart from us. When you can barely keep your eyes open for tiredness. When I feel the gentle, tickling brush of your eyelashes on my cheek. It’s not love, though it could be, I think. I don’t know if you want that. I’m too afraid to ask. </p><p>I’m afraid of everything. The usual stuff, sure: death, change, the dark. I’m afraid of spiders with too-long legs and grass snakes and when people raise their voices too loud.</p><p>It’s too early to be awake. You know, because the air has this hum to it, and everything feels slightly too big, too liminal. Greet the crickets as they buzz in the reeds. <em>Hello sir, just passing through</em>. </p><p>I don’t look back. I’m not sure if I want to. It doesn’t hurt, not exactly. It’s sad, sure, knowing it could’ve been something. But I don’t want to think about that now. I can’t think about that now. My head is full with the sounds of 4AM, of quiet wind and rustling branches and the faint beginnings of a dawn chorus. I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again, but if I don’t: it was nice. There aren’t many people I care about.</p><p>But I don’t want to see you getting hurt, especially not by me. </p><p>The clouds are pale gold, banded with thin belts of blazing orange. And the sky, Notch, the sky. It’s like it’s infinite.</p><p>You would have looked lovely in a wedding dress.</p><p>There’s Queen Anne’s lace growing by the bankside, amongst the nettles and the rubbish. Your house is a while from the SMP—you moved just after Tommy’s exile order, a couple of weeks after our first date. I still visit the flower shop sometimes, to deliver to our regulars, keep everything looking shipshape, that sort of thing. I haven’t been back in a while though. There’s not much use for flowers when nobody has a house to put them in. </p><p>Everything seemed so bright back then. Maybe it’s rose-tinted glasses; I know there was still war and awful things and all of that. But it just never seemed that bad, in the way that it is now. I don’t know. </p><p>If you wanted, you didn’t have to get involved. Now, it’s all or nothing. If you’re not on our side, you’re on the side of the enemy. </p><p>It never felt too far gone to be fixed.</p><p>I wrap my coat tighter around me. It’s Will’s coat really. Phil retrieved it when they recovered his body from the crater. I wasn’t expecting anything, but I guess it was too big for Tommy, and Techno wouldn’t be caught dead in something like that.</p><p>I like it. Not because of him. Will in this coat frightened me: pacing up and down hallways, half-manic, whispering to himself; sunken eyes and too-sharp jawline. The hours I spent with him in the cold nights in the ravine, trying to talk him down. Trying to reason. He would pull the collar up around his throat and let me hug him, stroke his hair, whisper reassurances to the shadows on the ravine wall. Anything to think I was helping.</p><p>
  <em>"You’re scaring me.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He laughs. There was something about his laugh recently, something unhinged. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Scaring you?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I nod. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He leans in to catch a kiss. I pull away. “Will—”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Don’t you understand? We have to destroy it. It’s the only way."</em>
</p><p>It’s soft. Sometimes I stroke it to calm myself down. The sleeves are way too big, and there are places where the cotton has worn thin, but it’s nice to have something of his. </p><p>The path diverges here between country lane and the main road. <em>I could hitchhike?—no, bad idea</em>. You’ve told me the horror stories of kids being left half-dead in ditches. Maybe closer to the SMP.</p><p>Everything seems brighter at this hour. Brand new. </p><p>I start to note the birds I see along the path. Will used to do it. He knew all about that sort of thing.  He could tell each bird from its wing shape—<em>“Look, Niki, a kestrel!”</em></p><p>
  <em>The bird is a dark silhouette against the pale evening sky. I’m smiling. “How do you even know that?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“The tail.” He points at the bird. I squint. It looks just like every other bird I’ve seen in the past week. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I shrug, laughing. “If you say so.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He rolls his eyes, sighing.  “You’re just like Tommy.”</em>
</p><p><em>Tommy</em>—a sharp spike of anger rises up in me—<em>save it, Niki. Just get to the SMP, and then you can deal with it.</em></p><p>There’s something cracked, something black under my nails that I can’t scrub away. <em>You’re going to hurt someone, if you’re not careful. Someone you care about. (shutupshutupshutup)</em></p><p>
  <em>Little fires flickering in each fragment of smashed windowpane, glowing dark in the muddy glass.</em>
</p><p>The track is slowly widening, bumpy twisting country lanes replaced with the tarmacked roads of the city. Hedges are clipped back here, and the jungle trees are barely saplings. </p><p>I took one of the loaves for the journey. I hope you don’t mind. </p><p>Around the corner, and there it is. DREAM SMP, ¼ mile.  Castle towers stretch above the hill, black against the sun. It must be nearly five.</p><p>“Niki!”</p><p>I turn, trying to place the voice. </p><p>“Over here.” Eret is leant against the base of one of the fountains, hand shielding their eyes from the sun. </p><p>“Eret!” I smile.</p><p>“It is you. I wasn’t sure.”</p><p>I nod. I haven’t seen them in so long. They’re wearing jeans and a simple shirt. It’s well-cut stuff, probably expensive, but it’s still weird to see them without all their kingly trappings, their cloak and crown.</p><p>“I thought you had left for good.”</p><p>“I had. I just needed to get a few things from the flower shop before I go.”</p><p>“Ah, right. Well, it’s nice to see you. You’re living with Puffy now, I hear?”</p><p>I nod again. “Yes. Well...sort of. It’s complicated. Not anymore.”</p><p>They raise their eyebrows. “Oh?”</p><p>“We had a thing for a while and we were living together, but I’m doing something else now.”</p><p>“Well, let me know your new address. I don’t want it to be another year until we see each other again.”</p><p>Something claws at my throat. Tears spring to my eyes. <em>Don’t be pathetic, Niki.</em></p><p>“Sorry, I—” I wipe them away fiercely. “I missed you so much.”</p><p>They smile at me. It’s not the kingly smile that I’m used to, small and pleasant. It’s a real smile, Eret’s smile, wide and lovely. For some reason, it makes me want to cry even more. “Sorry.”</p><p>“C’mere.” He pats the grass beside him. </p><p>I sit down next to him, and all I can think of is the days before the war, when L’Manberg seemed good, and ours.</p><p>
  <em>“Can’t sleep?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I shake my head.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’s leaning the Camarvan, lap full of stones.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I lay my head on his shoulder and watch as he flicks stones across the lake. It starts to hurt after a while, but I don't want to move.</em>
</p><p>“What’s going on?”</p><p>“Nothing.” I pull the bread out of my bag and tear off a chunk. “Nothing, I swear. I just start crying randomly sometimes. I don’t know what it is.”</p><p>I feel their fingers start to comb through my hair. “I had that for a while, after the First War. I think you just need to give yourself a bit of time.” </p><p>“That’s what Puffy says too.”</p><p>“Well, Puffy’s smart. I’m glad you’re with her—”</p><p>“I’m not!”</p><p>“You are, you’re not, whatever. You need someone, Niki. Whatever you’re planning, just make sure you bring someone.”</p><p>There’s a silence. I think of you, holding me through fitful sleep. I was so sure you were going to leave me then. (To be honest, I’m still not sure why you didn’t.)</p><p>“I’d come myself, but I’m a bit tied up with treaties and reparations and all that boring stuff—”</p><p>“Oh, no, Eret...I wasn’t implying—I mean, I’d love you to come, but...you’re a king. I wouldn’t want to drag you away.”</p><p>He laughs, a short <em>ha!</em> of contempt. “Give me the word. Give me the word and I’ll drop everything.”</p><p>“I’ll remember that.”</p><p>“You’d better.”</p><p>I offer him a piece of my bread.</p><p>“Oh my, is this yours?”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>“It’s been a while since I’ve had your bread. I miss the bakery. Apparently it was caught in the explosion.”</p><p>I swallow. “I miss it too.”</p><p><em>The roar of naked flame. Ashes spat onto black grass. The sheer heat of it.</em> I watched it burn for hours.</p><p>“You should start up a new one, wherever you’re going.”</p><p>“Mmhm. I’ll think about it.”</p><p>“I’d fund it personally. Royal patronage.”</p><p>I laugh. “Maybe.”</p><p>He breaths out, and I can feel him smile against me. “Okay, seriously, what’s the plan?”</p><p>“Plan?”</p><p>“What, so you’re just running away?”</p><p>“Oh, no. Well...sort of. I’m thinking of building a new base, somewhere far away. And then…” </p><p><em>And then, and then and then and then</em>. I stop myself. I can’t tell Eret about Techno. They’d never forgive me. “I guess I’ll see how that goes. Just start again, you know?”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah. Sounds good.”</p><p>“How come you’re up this early?”</p><p>“Ah, you know. You don’t get a lot of time alone when you’re a king. Feels like you’re always on the battlefield.”</p><p>I grimace. “ I know the feeling.”</p><p>I lean into his hands. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt calm like this. The sun is high in the sky now. </p><p>“It was lovely to see you, Eret.”</p><p>“It was. Give me your address, remember? Don’t leave me out in the cold again.”</p><p>I laugh. “You’re so dramatic.”</p><p>“You know me.”</p><p>I stand up. We hug for what feels like ten minutes. I don’t want to let go. </p><p>“Bring me some of that bread when you open your bakery!” he calls as I turn back to the path.</p><p>“I will!”</p><p>
  <em>Crooked smiles. Fingers running through messy curls.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The soft down of your ram ears under my fingertips.</em>
</p><p>I’m thinking of Will. I’m thinking of you.  It’s almost paralysing.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div>I’m glad I didn’t burn the shop.<p>I expected it to be worse, to be honest. Weeds snaking up to the windowsill, dead roses in glass jars. But everything seems perfect. I fumble with the keys. Dust motes settle in the air. The bell rings as I open the door. The flowers in the window are fresh and seasonal: tulips and camellias—nothing like what I would pick.</p><p>“Niki?”</p><p>The voice is high and wavering, and there’s a sort of echo to it, as if we were back in the ravine. It’s kinder than I remember. </p><p>But it’s still him.</p><p>“Will?” </p><p>He’s lying across the counter, examining a chrysanthemum.</p><p>“Will…” I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. <em>Will.</em></p><p>But he’s not quite there. He’s dull against the bright flowers, greyed-out, as though he’s made of gossamer. <em>Will</em>. </p><p>He’s alive. He’s dead. He’s here.</p><p>I can’t breathe.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hi, thanks for reading! if you enjoyed, maybe consider leaving a comment? i have lots of ideas for the upcoming chapters which i'm very excited about.</p><p>come talk to me on tumblr @noonlighted (about anything, really, i love making new friends and quarantine is fucking with me)</p><p>lots of love,<br/>pear xx</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. a skirtful of grapes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>honestly, i was really insecure about this chapter, but my wonderful, wonderful betas princedemeter and aenqa hyped me up about it, so now i love it again. i love you guys a lot, you're both angels.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You’re a ghost,” I murmur. I can’t bring myself to move. “I thought you were dead.”</p><p>“I <em>am</em> dead.”</p><p>“No I mean…” I laugh then, if only to stop myself from crying. “I thought you were gone.” <em>I thought you left me.</em></p><p>“I was for a bit. Something pulled me back.”</p><p>“Oh.” I don’t know what to say. <em>He’s not gone. He’s not gone.</em></p><p>“Sorry for coming in here without asking, I just—”</p><p>“You’ve been taking care of the shop?”</p><p>He nods, smiling. “I like the flowers.” He looks back at the one he’s holding, watching the way the petals glow gold against his grey skin.</p><p>It reminds me of you, on our first date. How you picked a buttercup from the lawn and shone it under my chin, giggling the way kids do. </p><p>He turns on the counter, offering it to me. “What’s this one called?”</p><p>“Chrysanthemum.” I clear my throat. My voice is so small I can barely hear it.</p><p>He repeats it to himself in his new, echoing voice. “That’s nice.”</p><p>“Come with me,” I say before I can stop myself.</p><p>He falters. “Sorry...come where?”</p><p>I shake my head. <em>I don’t know.</em> “Away from here.”</p><p>“If you’d like me to.”</p><p>
  <em>I would. Notch, I would.</em>
</p><p>I wait for the grin, for him to pull me through the door, to tell me this is all he’s ever wanted. But it never comes. He waits, soft and silent on the windowsill, as I pack supplies (barely enough to live on, just water and food and a couple good pickaxes). It’s strange, sitting in silence with him. He could never stand it when he was alive—I think that’s what got to him, in the end. Back in the ravine.</p><p>The silence; the enormity of it. Feeling like every word was a crime. </p><p>“Do you eat?”</p><p>“I’ve never tried.”</p><p>I pack extra anyway—we might get stuck in a desert, or a tundra, or who knows where.</p><p>“I remember you,” he says, as I lock up the shop.</p><p>“You remember me?”</p><p>“Yeah. I don’t remember much, ‘specially the sad things. But I remember you.”</p><p>“Oh,” I say. <em>He remembers me.</em> “What do you remember?”</p><p>“L’Manberg, mostly. Before the wars and stuff—Phil told me about those. And the bakery. That was nice.” </p><p>We’re approaching the border of the SMP now, where the trees have been left to grow big and old. </p><p>“Wait a minute,” he says. He walks to the left of the path, to one of the open fields where horses graze. I don’t know if he’s walking, really. It’s not quite floating, the way I picture ghosts in my mind, four feet off the floor, drifting through walls. But it’s not human, either—a certain glide, as though he’s ice skating.</p><p>“This is Friend.” He holds the lead of a sheep with dark blue wool. I lean down to stroke his ears. </p><p>“You’re lovely,” I whisper to him.  “Is he a ghost too?” I say, glancing back at Will.</p><p>“No, but Phil said he’s immortal. I’m not sure if he was joking though. I can never tell.”</p><p>We walk, and walk, and walk. The sun rises and falls, and we barely pause to eat. </p><p>Will talks, always—the things the flowers say, what death feels like, some funny thing Techno said the other day. He doesn’t talk about Tommy. I’m grateful. I don’t want to explain it to him. I don’t think I’m ready.</p><p>As the sun starts to dip again, huge and red against the salmon sky, we walk past a clearing in a dark oak forest, full of flowers: lily of the valley, lilacs, peonies. It looks just like a faerie glade.</p><p>Something tugs inside me: a strange, mad kind of happiness, the kind of feeling that only appears in the small hours of the morning. “Look! It’s so pretty!”</p><p>Friend wanders over, trampling snowdrops. He starts to pull the heads off the seedlings.</p><p>“Friend!” Will says, exasperated, tugging on the lead. I laugh.</p><p>“We have to live here. Friend’s chosen it.” </p><p>We follow him through the trees to a huge grassy dale. </p><p>It feels as though something is lifting me, light and unearthly. As we walk over the hill, I notice a cave, sitting in the overhang of the valley.</p><p>“It’s like a hobbit-hole! We could make a little round door, and you could get some green paint maybe—” I notice his face, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. <em>Oh. He doesn’t remember.</em></p><p>“Never mind.”</p><p>There are so many flowers. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many in one spot. </p><p>There’s magic in this place. I know it.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div>It feels like the beginning again. Arms full of oak wood, broken axe handles burned for firewood. The sun, hot and bright overhead. Ghosts don’t burn, but I do, painful and red all up my arms and neck.<p>The cave is perfect—large enough that we don’t have to mine it out, but small enough that I don’t feel lost in it. We’ll have the whole world in here, the sea and the forest and the desert. We’ll never have to leave ever again.</p><p>Our chests are all filled with stone and dirt, and we barely have the torches keep mobs from spawning. But it feels more home than L’Manberg ever did.</p><p>At night, I sleep with my head on Friend’s belly, and wake up each morning thinking I’m back with you. That the scratch of his wool against my cheek is your hair, white and lovely.</p><p>It hurts just as bad every time. Remembering you. the days we spent in that house, alone. Together. Barely talking, but for mumbled <em>mornings</em> and <em>could you pass the coffees</em>. The shit I left behind, because I can never let things go. Because I’m a coward.</p><p>“What will you call it?”</p><p>“Hmm?” </p><p>I’m tapping Will’s flint and steel together—real Will, not his ghost—trying to make a spark. I found it in his coat pocket, after Phil gave it to me. I think it was the flint and steel he used to light the TNT that blew up L’Manberg.</p><p>It calms me, for some reason. The gentle <em>tap tap tap</em> of rock against iron.</p><p>I shouldn’t have it, I know. It’s the kind of thing that should’ve been buried with him. That should’ve been left behind.  </p><p>“This place. Like, you could call it...The Lair.” <em>A flash of the old drama, his longing for the grandiose.</em></p><p>I laugh. “I was thinking...Asphodel.”</p><p>His eyebrows press together. “That’s so depressing, Niki! Why would you call it <em>that</em>? I’ve died, and I can tell you, there’s nothing.”</p><p>“Nothing?”</p><p>His eyes glaze for a second, blacken slightly. “Nothing.”</p><p>“I just…like it.”</p><p>“Asphodel,” he says, testing it on his tongue. Bemused, he shakes his head. “I still like The Lair.”</p><p>I laugh again.</p><p>Silence, for a moment. The hum of the furnace.</p><p>“I’ll go cover the carrots before the rain starts,” he says, getting up.</p><p>“Rain?”</p><p>“Haven’t you seen the clouds?”</p><p>I follow him to the door of the cave. Black leaden storm clouds have bloomed across the forest, and there’s a sharpness in the air, <em>waiting</em>. It’s as if the ground is crying out.</p><p>And then it starts, thundering down, sudden as a car crash, slapping the grass and pooling in the hollow of the valley.</p><p>“Oh dear,” he says.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Ghosts melt in water.”</p><p>“I’ll go.”</p><p>“You’ll catch your death.”</p><p>I laugh. “You sound like my mama.”</p><p>He’s almost orange under the slanting firelight of the cave. My dress is starting to soak through.</p><p>“Go,” he says. “Before you get hypothermia.”</p><p>The air is bright and sweet and freezing, and I take off my shoes as I run, my feet sinking into the sodden ground. Splintered lightning stains the sky, stark and beautiful. </p><p>We only planted the carrot seeds a couple of days ago, but they’re already almost fully grown. It’s something about this place. The air is thick and prismatic with magic.</p><p>I’m almost at the farm plot, when something—someone whispers my name.</p><p>
  <em>Niki.</em>
</p><p>The voice is quiet, but it’s clear, despite the crash of the rain.</p><p><em>Niki, Niki, Niki</em>. Hundreds now, voices piping and gleeful.</p><p>I whirl around. “Who’s there?”</p><p>Faeries. <em>I knew it</em>.</p><p>They take my hands, pull me deeper into the forest, over twigs and thorns and chestnut shells. They kiss my hands, my hair, my forehead. Every place they touch, I glow, bright as music.</p><p><em>Come, come</em>, they whisper. <em>Follow us</em>.</p><p>You’d told me of them, once. The lost nymphs of the forest, captured and enslaved by the pirates and privateers and explorers. Their magic, their curses. Their beauty.</p><p>The crash of thunder, so loud I’m sure the forest is on fire. I look for the explosion, as the nymphs stroke my hair and laugh their high, ringing laughs. Again: the bright gashes of lightning, the roll and roar of thunder. I’m screaming. The wind is screaming with me, curling loud and cold around my rain-soaked arms. They comb wildflowers into my hair, bluebells and dog violets and bright primroses.</p><p>“<em>Come live with us</em>,” they whisper to me. They are so lovely I want to cry. “<em>Live with us under the sea. They’ll love you there</em>.”</p><p>“I can’t breathe underwater,” I laugh. <em>Take me with you. Take me down there, where nobody can find me.</em></p><p>“We’ll breathe for you,” one promises, and they all nod, eyes wild and opalescent. </p><p>“<em>Come with us</em>,” they say again, leading me to the edge of the lake, through the dark, frothing waters.</p><p>Oh, they're singing. They're singing, and it’s so achingly beautiful, and I’m walking on the surface of the lake as though it were glass, and they’re holding me everywhere, always, leading me farther out from the land. “I love you,” I say, and I sound drunk.</p><p>“Niki!” I hear Will call. He sounds wild. “Niki, where are you?”</p><p>“Shhh!” the nymphs laugh, covering my mouth. <em>I’m here, Will, don’t worry. I’m alive.</em></p><p>“Niki!” he shouts again. He’s standing at the lakeside from the shore, jumper neck pulled over his head to try protect himself from the beating rain.</p><p>
  <em>He shouldn’t be there. He’ll melt.</em>
</p><p>I know he sees me. The nymphs are dragging me under the surface, singing some old wailing hymn in my ears, and I am happy, happy finally. </p><p>He is not graceful, as he reaches beneath the waves and wraps his arms around me. He does not stroke my hair, he does not sing, he does not twine my fingers with seaweed and new pearls or tell me he loves me.</p><p>His arms thrash and shake around my body, and there’s a great hissing roar, like cold water on a hot pan. <em>Stop!</em> I want to yell, but the nymphs fingers are still folded against my mouth, slender and blue and tasting of salt. <em>Stop! You’re breaking it!</em></p><p>And then he’s holding me, and the nymphs are gone, gone forever. They will never take me under the surface, they will never teach me how to sing as they do, so raw and tender. They will never feed me stolen breaths to keep me living. “Stop,” I sob against his chest. “They were going to take me.”</p><p>He holds me like a baby as we fly back over the lake. I let my head dangle backwards over his arms, so the world is upended; watching our silhouette, black against the clear dark water. <em>Why did you stop me?</em> Gasping, shallow. Wet and ugly. I try to beat my fists against his chest, but they go right through. </p><p>He doesn’t talk to me. His face is warped with pain. “Will?” I say. My voice is deep and guttural from screaming. “Am I dying?”</p><p>He looks at me now, eyes wide and sad. I didn’t think ghosts could cry.</p><p>“Will?” I say again—<em>talk to me, please, Notch</em>—“I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Please don’t call me Will,” he says at last. “My name is Ghostbur.”</p><p>I don’t know what I want him to say. Something. Anything.</p><p>He relights the fire with Will’s flint and steel. It dances across the walls of the cave, Plato’s blurred forms flickering in the shadows of the flame.</p><p>My feet are stained a dark bloody purple; I have a vague memory of a skirtful of grapes, of me running through a vineyard, hands wet with juice and rain.</p><p>
  <em>“We’ll have wine!” I shouted to him, through the quickening wind.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’s smiling: not like Will, with his wild, bright eyes, running his hands through his hair; it’s timid and premeditated. But he’s not Will, I have to remind myself. He’s a ghost. He’s dead, Niki, he’s dead, and he barely remembers you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Wine like the Greeks!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What’s with you and the Greeks?” he called back. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It was him, when he was alive. Achilles, and Heracles, all those heroes in the ancient stories he’d tell me about, back in L’Manberg, when the sky was untainted from soot or smoke. It’s what he loved.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“This is how they made it,” I said, emptying the grapes into the basket. “Crushed the grapes with their feet.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You know everything, Niki.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I laugh, but it feels fake and wrong, Will told me that, years ago. I feel like a fraud.</em>
</p><p>Warmth, brightness. Cold, rough stone. I stare up at the huge sunless ceiling, not able to wipe away the tear that leaks out the side of my eye. </p><p>Friend wanders over, butting my head gently. Ghostbur presses blue dye into my hands, picks the flowers from my hair, unspeaking.  I feel his finger trace my forehead, tucking the ragged strands of hair behind my ear. There’s a red tinge to his arms. </p><p>I think about kissing him for a moment. Because I never got to, before he died. Because he’s the closest thing I have to Will.</p><p>But that’s the problem, isn’t it. He’s not Will.</p><p><em>Will—Ghostbur, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.</em> I want to claw at him, to make him understand. <em>Please don’t leave me.</em></p><p>I fall asleep thinking of you, the way I always do. Guilt, a deep and gnawing knot in the base of my stomach.  </p><p>But I can’t stop myself from missing him. </p><p>And I can’t stop myself from wondering what would’ve happened if I’d stayed.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>can you tell how desperately i want a niki/ghostbur interaction?? </p><p>i hope you enjoyed! if you did, maybe leave a comment? they mean a lot to me, and i go back to them all the time and reread them, because you guys are so lovely. (thank you so, so much to everyone who commented on the first chapter. i love you, i would take a bullet for you.) </p><p>p.s, here are all the poems i used as inspiration for this chapter (because i love them and so should you)<br/>- <a href="https://www.bartleby.com/142/22.html">one hour to madness and joy</a> - walt whitman<br/>- <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45132/music-when-soft-voices-die-to-">music, when soft voices die</a> - percy bysshe shelley<br/>- <a href="http://www.frenchlanguageguide.com/culture/literaryfrench/ophelie.asp"> ophelie</a> - arthur rimbaud </p><p>also, of course, the secret history. i think that’s a given at this point, honestly. whenever i write anything just assume that i'm ripping off donna tartt lol :') </p><p>come bully me on tumblr @noonlighted</p><p>lots of love,<br/>pear xx</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. tear down the world</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you once again to the lovely princedemeter for beta'ing &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The carrots are all gone, washed away by the storm.</p><p>There's this low, constant whirring sound in my ears, as though it were trying to fill the silence of these early hours. My feet are still stained dark with grape juice and blood.</p><p>The magic’s all but gone—no longer the screaming, savage buzz of spells, rainbow film in the air. But it’s still there, if I concentrate:  a dull thrum in the background, like the sound of a motorway, still roaring, but far away now. </p><p>Everything feels slightly sharper, less hazy and distant. Beautiful, sure, but in a different way. The grass isn’t tinted gold, the flowers don’t whisper, the trees don’t beckon me with their dark, ancient branches. Something about it makes me feel some strange, scratching sadness, this weight that hangs heavy in my throat. The soil is black, still soaked with rainwater.</p><p>I don’t put anything in my bag apart from an old end of bread and a bottle of water—there’s nothing else I have, really. <em>Imagine that</em>, I think. <em>Nothing in the world except a cave, a ghost and a sheep.</em></p><p>I let myself take a last look at them before I go—I’m coming back of course, but some part of me feels like it won’t be the same. That I’ll have betrayed them, somehow.</p><p>I can’t talk myself out of now. I can’t afford to let myself feel guilty. <em>This has to happen. It’s the only way.</em></p><p>The journey back to the SMP feels strange, dreamlike almost. Muggy June air. Off-kilter. I feel like I could reach out my hand and tear down the world, as though it were paper. </p><p>The portal is bright and swirling, and I have to dig my nails into my palms to keep myself grounded, to stop myself from drifting back into the faeries’ grasp.</p><p>“<em>They feed on emotion</em>,” I remember you telling me one day, as I prepared our dinner. You’d always describe those old myths: the jewel smugglers and the pirates and the four-eyed shark creatures that lived deep in the depths of the ocean. "<em>Especially bad stuff—they love pain, anger, sadness. It keeps them strong.</em>"</p><p>As I cross the patchwork bridge, I think of you. I wonder if you noticed that I was gone. <em>Did you feel sad? Did you miss me?</em></p><p>
  <em>I doubt it.</em>
</p><p>The cold hits me like a slap as I leave the portal. My eyes smart, adjusting to how bright everything is, compared to the gloomy light of the Nether.</p><p>The morning is bitter and unforgiving as I walk  through the snow towards the blue-grey plume of smoke that rises above the hills. I don’t think my feet have ever been this cold.</p><p>Techno’s house is handsome, mock-Tudor in design, all dark oak beams and gabled roofs. It reminds me of your house, cosy, warm: the kind of place meant for rest, meant to be shared in those quiet, lovely hours where neither of you want to sleep or talk, or do anything, really, except to sit there with someone else, and watch the sunrise, gaudy and inhuman against the white sky. </p><p>I watch him potter around the stables, his silhouette massive in his dark furred coat. He stops to stroke one of his horses—a beautiful chocolate-coloured thoroughbred. He rests his forehead against the horse’s face as though he’s whispering to it, the way I would whisper to you when you were sleeping, winding the pale tangles of your hair through my fingers. </p><p>"<em>Let’s stay here forever, grow old</em>.” </p><p>And all the stuff that went unsaid, too, because I was scared you were still awake. <em>I hope we die at the same time, holding each other. I hope that they find us, in a hundred years, when our skin has rotted and only our bones remain. I hope they find us, holding each other still.</em></p><p>You had a horse too, I remember. Back when you were a knight. Cottonball. You tried to teach me how to ride her one time, walking me through rein grip and rising trot. Me screaming when she broke into a canter, clinging to the reins for dear life—”<em>Puffy, help me</em>!”—you bent double as you laughed. That was before the war, before L’Manberg actually. I wonder if she’s still there, in Eret’s stables. </p><p>It feels almost invasive, seeing him like this. Gentle, caring. He almost looks normal. </p><p>“Niki?”</p><p>My heart stops. The voice is high and trembling. <em>Ghostbur.</em></p><p>I take  a deep, shaky breath, and turn around. “Yes?”</p><p>“What...what are you doing?”</p><p>I don’t answer for a long time.</p><p>He reminds me of Tubbo, all those years ago in L’Manberg, innocent and naive and so desperately, unshakingly sure that everything was good.</p><p>“I thought you were sleeping.”</p><p>He shakes his head. “I followed you here. I didn’t know what you were doing.”</p><p>“You scared me.”</p><p>“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to know where you were going.”</p><p>“I’m just...visiting Techno.”</p><p>He smiles. “You should have told me! I haven’t seen him in so long. I kept wondering why he disappeared, but nobody would tell me where he’d gone.”</p><p>I wince.</p><p>“Ghostbur, I...I think you should go.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“I…” I don’t know how to explain it.</p><p>“This is about Tommy, isn’t it?” His tone is so blithe I’m not sure if he’s even aware what he’s referring to. It catches me completely off guard.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Tommy. He’s just a kid, Niki.”</p><p>It comes before I can stop it, rising fractured and black and ugly in my chest. </p><p>“Everyone says that.” I spit, and once I start, I can't stop. It's all spilling out of me, months and months of arguments I've won in my head. “Everyone says that, but they forget that so was I. I was barely older than he is now when the war started Will. I lost all that time to fighting and most of it was for shit I didn’t care about. So I am sick of people telling me he’s just a child, because so was I. So were <em>you</em>. And it won’t stop here, will it? He can preach peace as much as he wants but as long as he’s here there’s always going to be fighting. Because he doesn’t care about us, Ghostbur. Well, he cares about you and Tubbo and Phil and Techno. But he doesn’t want peace. That’s never what this was about. He just wants to be able to do whatever he wants, no consequences. Who was the one of started this whole stupid war over those fucking discs? It was Tommy, on the bridge, even though we told him not to, even though we all said it was a bad idea. But he still did it.”</p><p>“He won L’Manberg’s independence,” Ghostbur says, and I know he’s quoting from a textbook. </p><p>“Yeah. He did. And maybe I would’ve respected him if he’d left it alone after that. But he didn’t, did he? He had to have his cake and eat it too. And everyone tries to tell me they don’t like Tommy either, but at the end of the day they’ll run right back to him and fight in his stupid wars, because he’s a ‘hero’. And now L’Manberg is blown up, Ghostbur. The same L’Manberg that he fought so hard to defend, apparently. Because of him. So I’m tired of defending him, when I could have been <em>living my life</em>, you know? Doing normal shit. Growing up. You know, the stuff kids are meant to do. “</p><p>He’s silent for a long time after. When he finally speaks, his voice low and measured, barely above a whisper. He doesn’t sound angry, not like Will at least, with his wild, spitting rage. But each word is so purposeful, so filled with hurt. His eyes are hypnotic with pain.</p><p>“I’m not stupid, you know. I know everyone treats me like I am because I don’t remember things and I’m friends with the wrong people, but I’m not.”</p><p>“I never thought you were—” he cuts me off with a piercing look, so sad I forget anything I might’ve said.</p><p>“It wasn’t Tommy's fault that l’Manberg got blown up, any of the times.  It wasn’t Tommy’s fault that L’Manberg went to war. That was Wilbur. It was all Wilbur. And I’ll probably forget this all in a couple of hours, but just...Techno blew up L’Manberg, Niki. That was my home. I built that myself, it took months. That wasn’t Tommy’s fault. So I know you don’t like Tommy—”<em>that’s one way to put it</em>—“but I swear to...I swear on my death, Niki, if you hurt him...I’ll never speak to you again.”</p><p>I swallow, stunned. I feel my blood freeze in my veins. <em>Everything hurts</em>. “Are you angry because of yesterday?”</p><p>He pauses. “What?”</p><p>
  <em>What the fuck do you mean, what? You’re just being cruel now.</em>
</p><p>“Yesterday,” I say again, and there’s a bite to it this time. <em>Stop</em>, a little voice says. <em>Stop doing this, Niki.</em></p><p>
  <em>Did I really imagine it? I can’t have really imagined it. It was real, I swear, it felt so real. The faeries. The<br/>
magic. Ghostbur stroking my hair as I fell into a hazy sleep.</em>
</p><p>But I remember the flowers, small and withered by his hands. How they’d threaded them through my hair. How the petals floated away, brilliant against the dark water, as they pulled me beneath the surface.</p><p>
  <em>It was real.</em>
</p><p>“I...I don’t remember.”</p><p>“Wha—” <em>Oh.</em></p><p>His voice rings in my head. <em>I don’t remember much, ‘specially the sad things.</em></p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>“What happened yesterday?”</p><p>“Nothing...nothing.”</p><p>He might as well have slapped me straight across the face. The lie comes easily, but I feel it, red-hot and painful inside my throat.</p><p>I miss him. Notch, I miss him.</p><p>Not even the relationship, really—that was nice, sure, but I miss <em>him</em>. Wilbur. His crazy schemes and dramatic speeches and his constant, roaring desperation to be remembered, to be someone important. </p><p><em>I remember you</em>, I think. <em>I remember you, Will.</em></p><p>“Have some blue,” he says quietly, pressing the dye into my hand. His palms are stained dark with it already, I notice.</p><p>“Let’s go home.”</p><p>It’s sad, isn’t it? Here, where the world is bleak and blank, where the trees stand stark and bare against the blazing whiteness of it all. I wonder if I could ever find solace in a place like this.</p><p>
  <em>Home.</em>
</p><p>I thought I had that with you, once. It scares me, how temporary everything has become. Something so sure and stable, gone the next second, wiped away, years of history gone in the press of a button or the flick of a match.</p><p>L’Manberg. We built those walls ourselves, dug the sand and gravel, mixed the concrete and dyes, we rebuilt them when they fell or when they were blown up. L’Manberg, our home. Gone in seconds. I wonder if Eret was right, that time in the Final Control Room. A god—not Dream, a <em>real</em> god, the universe, perhaps, telling us time and time again. <em>It was never meant to be.</em></p><p>Everything is moving so fast, dying and yelling and and rushing past me, while I stay, stuck in this place, watching as everything is born again one more, far in the distance.</p><p>I’m scrambling to catch up, and it’s as though as soon as I stop to catch my breath, the world is moving again, laughing as I stumble stupidly after it.</p><p>I let Ghostbur lead me back to the portal.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>sad, i be. crying, i am. i really, really love this fic. i'm so glad i started it. it's made me appreciate c!niki so much more.</p><p>i just realised i may have accidentally made a moriarty reference and i would like to say that yes, from now on it will be my aim to squeeze in at least one andrew scott reference per chapter because GOD i love that man.</p><p>as always, kudos and comments are very appreciated :D</p><p>my <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/noonlighted">tumblr</a>! come chat to me &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. between the atoms</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>SECOND TO LAST CHAPTER POG!!! i am so excited and sad for this fic to end. i've loved writing it a lot. </p><p>thank you so much to my betas aenqa and princedemeter. you're both great &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>We spend the next few weeks in a strange inbetween—not hostile, but not quite friendly either. He still lets me lay my head on his shoulder, but everything feels sharper, and I can feel him watching me with those sad grey eyes, long after I drift off. (Perhaps it’s my own fault—I named it Asphodel, after all. You don’t call something Purgatory expecting it to be paradise.) </p><p>I hear them singing at night. The faeries.</p><p>It’s not beautiful anymore. They sound like cats fighting, wailing and shrieking late into the night. Sometimes I try to remember their faces, but all I can imagine are wicked black eyes and mouths full of rows of grey teeth. They’re watching me, I can feel it. Waiting for the day to end, for me to step out of the cave and into their land where they can feed me spelled violet petals and lead me through rose bushes ‘til my legs are wet with blood.</p><p>I’ve felt sick for days now, and I could never place my finger on why. Anxiety, maybe. Sadness. They both probably play a part. But this sudden unease has made me realise what it is: the strange, melancholy grey between content and starving, the desperate clawing for more. </p><p>I just want to be close to someone. I want it so fucking bad I can’t breathe. </p><p>At night he’ll pick daisies for me and I’ll watch the sunken red sun ripple on the lake’s surface, and it should be lovely, it should be perfect, but it’s not. </p><p>It’s fucking awful.</p><p>And it’s not even because he’s a ghost, though that makes it worse. It was the same with you. The hours holding you as you slept, shuffling closer, trying not to wake you. Trying to stop the sickly weight in my stomach. The feeling that I couldn’t be physically close enough to someone, even if I tried, even when I was pressed right up against you, close enough to feel your breath on my cheek. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough, even though I knew if I held you any tighter you’d start turning blue.</p><p>Sometimes I wish that I could slip between the atoms, between the electrons and the quarks, and sew up all the spaces between us. So that somehow I might finally be close enough. That perhaps I might feel your arms around me.</p><p>It’s like being hungry. It’s always there gnawing at you, but there’s nothing to eat and even when there is, even when you finally find something you think will slake it, it doesn’t go away. It stays there, stubborn and sickening, taunting you. <em>You’ll never be full, no matter what.</em></p><p>It hurts worst in the morning, in the quiet glow of the sawdusted light. When the world is suddenly made up of Wilbur. When Asphodel’s pale grey walls become his skin, wan and lifeless. When the black seams of shadow on the cave floor become the thin streams of blood that stain his coat, that I can’t wash away even now, because it’s the only real part of him that I have left.</p><p>It doesn’t help that I can’t stop thinking about that day. Ghostbur, like grey glass against the snow, the white reflecting a dazzling silver on his form. <em>I’ll never talk to you again.</em></p><p>He doesn’t understand. How could he? Tommy’s his brother, of course he’d be protective. </p><p>Will would’ve understood.</p><p>I try again, late one night when the hate hangs in me like molasses, thick and dark and bitter. Phil comes at midnight exactly, and I lead him to the valley before the faeries see him. They’re jealous creatures. They can strip the magic from unwitting mages like vultures with carrion.</p><p>“How come...I thought Techno was coming?” </p><p>“Yeah, he was. He just got a bit caught up grinding for resources, you know how he gets, and I knew he was going to come see you today about the Syndicate. So I thought I’d come instead. That okay?”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah!” I say, a little too brightly. <em>No. It’s not okay. Techno’s one thing, he has his own issues with Tommy. He’s not too hard to sway. But Phil...that’s a whole other can of worms.</em></p><p>He glances towards the pale light of the cave entrance. “Ghostbur’s here? I haven’t seen him since...since—”</p><p>“Since you blew up L’Manberg?” I finish for him. The apathy in my voice seems to shock him slightly.</p><p>“Yeah…” He pauses, seeming to mistake my silence for anger. “Niki, I’m not trying to start something here, but you didn’t seem exactly averse from blowing stuff up yourself.”</p><p>
  <em>It happens so fast, I’m not sure if it happened at all—the flash of sparks, and suddenly it’s on fire. All this protection, but in the end, it burns the same as any other tree. Red and boring. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I wait for the guilt, but it never comes. As I said, it’s just a tree. And then not even that, a blackened stump, embers faltering  in the dead grass.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s kind of pathetic.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Goodbye, L’Manberg. You’ve been a good friend.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I swore I heard her, under the rubble and the bodies.</em>
</p><p>“Oh, he’s got a new sheep.” Phil smiles to himself.</p><p>I blink, and the world floods back. “New?”</p><p>“He had this sheep called Friend, and it died somehow, and he got kind of upset. So I told him he was immortal, and that he could find Friend again if he looked hard enough. He just finds new sheep and dyes them blue every time.” </p><p>He laughs. Something about his laugh makes me angry.</p><p>“Yeah. It’s the least you can do, after letting him blow up,” I say.</p><p>Phil’s eyes flash with confusion. “Will didn’t blow up.”</p><p>I feel my face twist. The world seems to come into a sudden focus. “What?”</p><p>He sighs. “Niki...I killed him. I stabbed him right after he blew up L’Manberg, and then he died.”</p><p> </p><p>“You stabbed him?”</p><p>“He practically begged me to.”</p><p>“He begged you?” I feel like a fucking parrot.</p><p>Phil nods slowly. “You really didn’t know?” His eyes mist over for a second. “He smiled, when he died.”</p><p> </p><p>“What...what did he say? Before he...” I can barely get the words out.</p><p>He swallows. “He said—” he laughs, and it’s one of those wet, choking laughs that are more to keep the tears back—“he said, ‘if i can’t have this, no-one can’.”</p><p>I’m crying. I’m fucking crying again, and it’s so stupid. “He said that?”</p><p>“Yeah. And then he begged me to kill him. And then…” he wipes his eyes—“fuck, sorry. And then I <br/>stabbed him. My son. I killed him. And he was happy.” There’s silence for a second, heavy and bitter. </p><p>He looks at me as if I’ll tell him that’ll be alright. <em>Don’t worry, you did the right thing. I forgive you.</em></p><p>I leave him outside the entrance of Asphodel.</p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div>It’s a long night. I can’t get to sleep. The faeries are singing again, wild and catlike. I think it’s driving me crazy.<p><em>Tap, tap, tap</em>. Will’s flint and steel. It’s become a habit at this point; I barely realise I’m doing it. </p><p>I start to experiment with paper, measuring how long I can hold it before the flames start to scorch. I like to watch the way they twist in the huge shadows, how quickly they swallow it.</p><p>“Niki,” I hear Ghostbur murmur. He’s smiling, I can hear it in his voice. “What are you doing?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” I murmur back. “Burning stuff.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“It’s pretty.”</p><p>He laughs. “You’re weird.”</p><p>I shake my head at him. “You can talk, ghost boy.”</p><p>He smiles his lovely smile, small and tired, but lovely nonetheless. “That’s fair.”</p><p>I allow myself to enjoy the moment—us smiling, my fingers singed, the paper twisting as it burns.</p><p>And then his expression shifts—he looks confused. “You’re burning them,” he whispers.</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Niki...those are my books.”</p><p>I turn the burning page and notice the crammed, looping font distorting behind the smoke. “Your books?”</p><p>“I was writing down everything I remembered.” </p><p>I freeze.</p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>“Why...why are you doing this?”</p><p>“I didn’t mean to.”</p><p>
  <em>I don’t think either of us really believes that.</em>
</p><p>I glance over at the books. The pages are almost all gone. <em>I’ve burned so much. I didn’t realise.</em></p><p>“Why, Niki? Why would you do that?”</p><p>“I…” I think about what Phil told me about Wilbur, in his last moments. <em>If I can’t have this, no-one can.<em></em></em></p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“I don’t want those memories to exist anymore.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>He tilts his head, and I can tell he’s trying so hard to understand. “Why?”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“Because...because all that stuff, me and you, it can’t happen now.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em><em>And I’d rather forget it ever happened than keep remembering how it did</em>, I don’t say.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“You don’t want to remember L’Manberg?” he says shakily.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>There’s a sudden, mad desire to laugh. “Of course not.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>He looks confused. I turn away from him, watching the shadows on the ceiling again.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“I never wanted to be someone important, Ghostbur. I just wanted to enjoy my life with my friends. With you.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“But...but that’s why we built L’Manberg. To have a special place. Haven’t you listened to the song?”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“I was there when you wrote it.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>He nods. “Well, what does it say? ‘<em>I heard there was a special place</em>’. L’Manberg was supposed to be special.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“I know.” I sound so tired. “I know.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>I shouldn’t keep pushing, but I do. Because I’ve already fucked things up, and that cruel voice in the back of my head is telling me that <em>there’s no coming back from this. You might as well tell him now, before you do something else and he never speaks to you again. You know, like he said</em>.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>It’s kind of addictive, digging yourself a hole. Cathartic. I’m so tired of listening to stupid people all the time, of following people in the war that I don’t really believe in, because <em>hey, at least they’re better than the other bastards</em>. I’m so tired of following. </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“You know why I kept going? Even after Schlatt raised my taxes? Even after you—after Will told me that I couldn’t come to Pogtopia? It was because I thought that once all of this was over, once we killed Schlatt, everything would go back to how it was before. That we could be happy again, no more stupid wars. But—” <em>say it Niki, you know you want to</em>—“you had to go and fucking die.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“Wilbur <em>wanted</em> to die.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>I turn back to him, and there it is again, that familiar scraping pain in my throat. </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“Don’t you see how that makes it worse? Don’t you understand that? I thought...all this time I thought that you hadn’t meant to die. I don’t know, a malfunction with the TNT or something. I would have forgiven you. We could’ve had a life together. We could’ve been <em>happy</em>.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“Niki...there’s some things that I don’t think you should forgive people for.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“I would’ve...I would have forgiven you.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“I don’t think Wilbur would have wanted you to forgive him.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“What would he have wanted me to do?”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>Ghostbur thinks for a moment. “To carry on with your life.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“How—how can I? How can I just carry on with my life? He was...he was my best friend.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“What about your <em>alive</em> friends?”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“What about them?”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“Me, and Eret, and...and—</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>“I was his friend,” I say, quietly, and I have to bite the inside of my mouth to stop my voice from breaking. “And he left me.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>He doesn’t say anything, but it doesn’t feel like I’ve won.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>I walk to the forest, where the air is clear and sharp and stinging.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>It sounds like they’re screaming. </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>I wish you were here. You’d know how to fix this.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>I’ve fucked that too, haven’t I?</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>I love you, don’t I? </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>I can’t remember a day where I haven’t thought about you. Your dark eyelashes, curling like burning paper. The slant of your neck. How you’d lean into my hands when I stroked your hair. Your eyes, like cold burnished stars.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>Notch, I’m so stupid. </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>Tap, tap, tap. I’m tapping Will’s flint and steel so hard my hands are aching. The grass sparks, glowing bright in the wind. Love is awful. It’s awful.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>I really am no better than him, am I? Leaving you like that, no note, no proper goodbye. Deliberately.  </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>I let myself fall into a shaky sleep, ears full with rushing wind and faerie screeching and a ghostly <em>tap tap tap</em> of rock against iron.</em>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>let's play spot the fleabag reference! when i said i'm sticking with this andrew scott thing, i wasn't fucking around.</p><p>also do not mention how every chapter something bad happens to ghostbur. i know. (i'm sorry ghostbur :'( )</p><p>as always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated &lt;3</p><p>my <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/noonlighted"> tumblr</a>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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